out to his own satisfaction the details of the battle which had raged there; but what interested him most at the moment was the freshness of Awi Agwa's tracks leading away from the place. Those tracks, he decided, were less than an hour old. With his crippled shoulder hampering his stride the elk could travel, Almayne believed, no faster than he himself could walk. Shouldering his rifle, the tall hunter strode onward, his thoughtful eyes studying the trail.
In the valley of Sequilla, in the shadow of Sani'gilagi, there was a village of the Cherokees. A chief lived there, one Nunda the Moon-Face, who had a roan horse which Almayne coveted. Nunda would sell this stallion if he could get his price; and now that Tlutlu the Martin-bird was lost to him, Almayne wished to bargain for Nunda's roan.
Yet he did not, as he had planned, go straight to Nunda's village. For fifty miles through the foothills Awi Agwa had led him in the direction of the Indian town; but by noon of the third day, when he was in the foothills no longer but well up among the spurs of the Cowees, Almayne realized that he must choose one of two paths. Down the ridge to the west was the way to Nunda's town. Up the ridge and due north went Awi Agwa's trail, heading
